


Forgetting the Past

by Antarctica OKane (C0DENAMEAntarctica)



Series: The Personal Journal of Mycroft Holmes [3]
Category: Greg Lestrade - Fandom, Mark Gatiss - Fandom, Mycroft Holmes - Fandom, Mystrade - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bisexual Greg Lestrade, Breakup, Cabinet Office, Case Fic, Conflict, Conflict Resolution, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Flashbacks, Gay Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Lies, M/M, Mrs. Hudson thinks Mycroft is a reptile, Murder, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft and Anthea are very close, Mycroft considers Anthea his baby sster, Mycroft has a tracking device?, Mycroft's office, Oral Sex, Original Characters - Freeform, POV Mycroft Holmes, Physical Domination, Physical Restraint, Secret Past, Secrets, Sex Club, The Queen's Physician, blindfold, great expectations, hidden past, mystrade, mythea, physical force
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28234146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C0DENAMEAntarctica/pseuds/Antarctica%20OKane
Summary: "Oh what a tangled web we weave."Mycroft, Greg, and Sherlock team up to solve five connected cases and accidentally stumble upon the darkest secrets kept by one member of their trio.
Relationships: Anthea & Mycroft Holmes, Anthea/Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade, Mystrade - Relationship
Series: The Personal Journal of Mycroft Holmes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037250
Comments: 29
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING:  
> This work deals with mature themes and features explicitly described sexual interactions.  
> This story is not for readers under the age of 18.
> 
> Copyright Note:  
> This work is intended for the personal use of the author and other members of the listed fandom. It is written with complete respect for the creators and writers of Sherlock. This work in no way aims to change, correct, or significantly alter properly published works. While Doyle's works are Public Domain, the author understands that material written by Gatiss, Moffat, and Thompson is still protected. This work exists only for the purpose of entertainment and will never be sold or otherwise used for profit. Any requests to remove this work made by Gatiss, Moffat, Thompson, Sue Vertue, Beryl Vertue, Hartswood, BBC, or any other related entities will be honoured immediately without question. 
> 
> Plagiarism Note:  
> In this author's Mystrade fics, Mycroft is an avid reader. Whenever we find him reading, we will find him reading Great Expectations. This is the author's nod to Mark Gatiss, the actor who plays this version of Mycroft Holmes on television. Mr. Gatiss has named Great Expectations as his favourite novel.  
> When we find Mycroft reading the novel, we may see quotes of text from the Dickens' classic within the fanfic. Great Expectations is, of course, now Public Domain, so copyright is no issue, but this note is just to explain that no plagiarism is intended. 
> 
>   
> CW// Indiscriminate Sexual Activity  
> While no archive warnings apply, the story will deal with very mature themes. Indiscriminate sexual activity, sex with unknown/unnamed partners, sex with multiple partners at one time, use of restraints, and other difficult themes will arise. Most of these will be discussed between characters and do not occur during this story itself. 

My ringing mobile woke me out of a dead sleep. I felt Greg stir, his head lifting off my chest as I reached for my phone. 

“Mycroft Holmes,” I said gruffly.

“Sir, the Director General of MI5 has been murdered.” Anthea’s voice was panicked.

Before I could ask for any details, I heard Greg’s mobile begin to ring.

“Send my car,” I ordered, disconnecting the call, as Greg rolled over to lift his phone from the other bedside table. 

“Lestrade,” he said, clearing his throat. “Sally, slow down.” His eyes finally opened and met mine with concern. “Okay. I’m on my way.” 

Greg rolled back toward me and nibbled my ear. “I’ve got a murder in Knightsbridge,” he whispered.

I turned, took his face in my hands, and kissed him, inhaling as I massaged his tongue with mine. “I’ve got one at MI5,” I said, pulling away. I looked at him intently, running my hands through his hair. “Be careful.”

“You too,” he answered, placing one last peck on my forehead before sliding out of bed.

*******

I had just arrived in the security room at the Cabinet Office to view surveillance footage when Sir Edwin’s agitated body flew through the door behind me. “Two MPs,” he managed, gasping for breath. 

“Three murders within the governmental hierarchy just this morning?” I phrased it as a question but spoke aloud only to force myself to evaluate the information.

My mobile vibrated in my pocket. Stepping back from Sir Edwin, I checked the screen to see Greg’s message:  _ Director General of the Confederation of British Industry. _

__ “Edwin.”

“Yes?”

“There have been two other high profile murders in London this morning as well.”

“What are we dealing with here, Mycroft?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll find out. Stay here,” I instructed, heading back outside to my car.

*******

“Hey there, handsome,” I heard behind me, as I opened the door on Baker Street five hours after leaving the Cabinet Office. I turned around in the doorway just in time to see Greg wink at me. 

“What are you doing here? You don’t need him,” he questioned.

“No, but you do.”

“You think our murders are connected?” he asked, with a genuine tone of surprise.

“No. I don’t think they’re connected.”

“You  _ know _ they’re connected,” Greg corrected himself.

I couldn’t help but smile at his adorable ignorance. 

I stepped aside to allow him to ascend the stairs first. “Up we go,” I coaxed.

Before we were even halfway up the staircase, Sherlock’s voice bellowed from his flat, “Are you boys going to come in? Mrs. Hudson might not take kindly to her hallway being used as some sort of mating ground.”

I took the last few stairs two at a time, walking into the flat with my head held high, nose in the air, and chest puffed. “Sometimes I’m tempted to carry a recording device so that I can capture these lovely, brotherly moments and share them with Mummy.”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock moaned, parking himself in his favourite chair. 

Greg walked through the door and sat down. “Where’s John?”

“He’s picking up Rosie from Molly’s. Now, how many murders?” asked Sherlock, looking at Greg.

“Now, wait a minute, how do you know there were murders?” exclaimed Greg.

Sherlock’s voice was already irritated. “That’s your murder face. Of course, there were murders.”

Greg’s eyes darted to meet mine. “I have a murder face?”

I smiled, nodding my head in confirmation.

“How many?” Sherlock was growing impatient.

Greg passed two file folders to Sherlock as he answered. “Two.”

“Five, actually,” I corrected. “All this morning.” 

Sherlock squinted his eyes in my direction. “So you’re just here to make sure I agree with you.”

Greg’s eyes darted to me again. “You’ve got this all solved?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he opened one of the files. “Of course he has it all solved, Greg. He just can’t be seen doing the dirty work alone.” He looked up at Greg. “You do realise that’s why he keeps us both around, don’t you?”

I heard myself exhale loudly as I wandered toward the fireplace. “Sherlock, enough,” I said, handing him my mobile. 

“What am I looking at?”

“Scroll through. That’s all five. Tell me what you see.”

Only seconds of silence passed before he answered, “adultery.”

“Anything else?” I prompted.

“Sexually indiscriminate adultery.”

“Excellent, little brother.”

“Wait. What does that even mean?” chimed Greg.

Without answering, Sherlock reached for his laptop, beginning to type furiously. “There’s one in Southwark and one in Lambeth,” he announced.

“One what?” Greg was beginning to raise his voice now, frustrated that we were leaving him out of our deduction game.

“Look at them,” I encouraged.

Sherlock took a moment to search for photos of each establishment. “The one in Southwark only has one entrance, on a well-traveled road. Let’s go,” he instructed, standing as he shut the laptop.

“We’re going to Southwark?” asked Greg, patting his side to reassure himself that his sidearm was still there.

“No, Greg,” Sherlock said with a mocking tone, “to Lambeth.” He swung his coat around his shoulders, quickly sliding his arms into its sleeves and popping the collar. “I do hope you brought your leather chaps, Inspector.”

“Leather chaps?” Greg looked at me with confusion. 

“Just follow him,” I said, waving my hand with an invitation for him to go first. 

*******

As the car entered Lambeth’s borough, I could feel Greg’s body tighten next to mine. He was strangely uncomfortable. I resisted the urge to deduce the problem, assuming he’d simply experienced a violent entanglement with a criminal there at some point during his career.

“So - so - umm - where exactly are we going?” he asked, looking at Sherlock.

“We’re going to enjoy a night out at the local swingers’ club, Greg,” said Sherlock with a mischievous grin.

“Swingers’ club?” Greg unfastened another button on his oxford as he spoke, clearly so uncomfortable that he was becoming overheated.

“It’s a sex club, Greg,” I explained. “It seems our victims were targeted because they frequent such a place while also having the sort of power or influence that could be used to destroy the proprietors if secrets - got out.” 

The car slowed to a stop in front of the dark building. 

“Guys, maybe we should talk about this. I mean, I think you may be jumping to conclusions. You think all five of them came here?” Greg’s voice was breathy, and he wiped sweat from his brow as he spoke.

I reached over, placing my hand on his knee as a source of reassurance. “We’re sure about this.”

“Right. Of course,” he said, looking down rather than making eye contact with me.

We exited the car and walked around the building to its alleyway entrance. 

A ravishing young woman with dark hair and green eyes met us as we walked through the door. Her gaze landed immediately on Greg. “Well, hello,” she said, reaching out to stroke Greg’s muscular arms.

He immediately recoiled, backing up so that his hip rested against mine.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman began,” you must be first-timers.”

“Yes,” replied Sherlock bluntly, stepping in front of Greg. He purred at her. “Maybe you’d like to show us around?” For all the other things my brother wasn’t, he could be quite charming if the situation called for it.

“I’d be delighted,” she said, moving in my direction. I watched as her eyes scanned my body, examining my clothing, and even breathing in my scent. “Maybe we should start in our high-roller room.”

“There’s gambling as well?” Sherlock’s voice was filled with ambivalence. He’d not expected gambling. Neither had I, though.

“No. No. That’s just what we call it,” she explained, still not taking her eyes off of me. “That’s where our wealthiest members spend their time.” I felt Greg’s hand touch my thigh as the woman winked at me, making it clear that she could read my status and power in my appearance. 

“That sounds perfect,” said Sherlock, not willing to turn down a chance to be taken immediately to the room our murder victims likely would have frequented. 

The woman’s gaze shifted to Greg again. “Follow me, gorgeous,” she said. 

In my periphery, I could see Greg shift his feet and gulp as she spun around to lead us toward the back of the building. 

As we walked, we passed dozens of large sofas, most of them claimed by two or three people each. There were cages of some sort hanging from the ceiling and doors lining one entire wall. 

“Those are private play spaces,” said the woman, following my eyes. “Fully equipped with anything that might tickle your fancy.” 

Sherlock marched along beside her. 

Dr. Watson had written once that Sherlock was like a trained bloodhound picking up a scent. He wasn’t wrong. 

“We also have larger rooms,” she began again, “if the three of you prefer to stay together.”

“Mycroft.” I heard Greg’s hushed voice trying to get my attention.

“It’ll be fine, Greg,” I reassured under my breath.

The woman breezed through a set of saloon doors, turning slightly to make sure we were all three still with her. 

“Here we are, gentlemen. Have fun.” She turned and exited the swinging doors. 

The room was dark, lit only by candles and blacklights. There were couches and cages again, as well as a separate bar area. 

“I need to have some conversations. You two blend in,” ordered Sherlock, his eyes bouncing between Greg and me with a hopeless expression.

“Go sit over there and kiss each other. I need five minutes,” he said, gesturing toward an empty couch. 

Greg and I walked toward the empty cushions. “I’m not sitting on that,” I said, defiantly.

“I’m not kissing you here. I don’t want to be here, Mycroft. I need to talk to you,” said Greg.

Before I could acknowledge his plea, my eyes landed on a man across the room. I felt my eyes grow wide and my face flush with dread. 

“What is it?” asked Greg.

I grabbed his face and kissed him, forcing my tongue into his mouth as I pushed him down to land on the sofa. I released his lips just barely enough to say, “the Queen’s personal physician.” I kissed him again, this time running my hands over his groin. 

“Are you mad?” he scolded, pulling away from me.

“Greg, he can’t see me. He knows me. Blend in.” Once more, I snatched his lips with mine, reaching to unbutton his shirt. 

“I knew that wouldn’t take long.” Sherlock’s voice came up beside us. 

I pulled away from Greg to examine my brother’s face.

“Out front. It’s the owner.”

Greg glared at me, wiping saliva from his lower lip. “The owner is the killer?”

“Yes, Greg,” droned Sherlock, leading us out of the room. 

Sherlock led us to a small podium, covered on its side by sets of keys. At its easeled top rested a bell. Sherlock tapped it expectantly.

A short, muscular man walked up behind us. “Yes, sir?” 

“Andrew Vincent,” Sherlock began as four Scotland Yard Sergeants entered the doors in front of us. “I’m afraid you’re under arrest for murder.” Sherlock turned to look at Greg. “Sorry, Inspector. I texted them while you two were busy enjoying yourselves back there.” He motioned toward the doors to the high-roller room. 

Greg’s eyes were huge, and I could see his pulse running through the artery in his neck. 

Andrew Vincent began to stare at Greg. In response, Greg stepped toward me. “Mycroft.”

Two of the Sergeants yelled so that I could barely hear him speak my name. “Everyone out. Clear out.” They rapped on every door as people rushed out of the club, holding loose clothing to their bodies to maintain some semblance of pride. Three women, however, remained and moved to crowd around the owner.

Sergeant Donovan secured her handcuffs on Andrew Vincent as he continued to study Greg.

I moved my gaze to Greg as well, ready to deduce him. I was interrupted, though, by the man’s thick voice. “Come on, Greg. You’re not going to keep quiet, are you? We thought you had our backs.” 

Sherlock’s eyes ran up and down Greg’s form, trying to deduce the reason such a man would know him by name. 

Greg remained silent as I suddenly found myself frozen with shock.

The man became more anxious. “We’ve always been proud to have one of our old guard at Scotland Yard. Now you’re gonna tell me it’s done us no good?” He resisted the grip of the Sergeant holding his arms in a manner that suggested he’d lunge at Greg if he’d had the freedom.

“Old guard?” Sherlock asked, his eyes still not leaving Greg.

The man yelled over his shoulder as Donovan pulled him toward the door. “One of our original members, he was. Now he thinks he’s better than us.”

I watched Greg as his muscles tightened even more and his skin became completely pale. Sherlock’s eyes darted to meet mine. 

“Take care of the others,” Greg ordered his remaining men. He walked past me, never making eye contact, went outside, and left with Sergeant Donovan.


	2. Chapter 2

I remained frozen on that spot as the three women were pulled out and taken away in police cars. Suddenly, I felt Sherlock approach my back. “Mycroft?”

“Yes,” I mumbled, awakening from my trance.

“You alright?”

“Yes. Of course,” I said, pulling myself together, straightening my coat, and walking toward the exit. 

“You didn’t know.”

“Sherlock, not now.”

“No. I think now,” he argued, reaching out for my arm, stopping me mid-step. 

I huffed a lung full of air in his direction as he moved to face me. 

“You didn’t know, did you?”

“Did I know that the only person outside of our family I’ve ever allowed myself to care for - the only man I’ve ever slept with - the man I love - used to be part of some indiscriminate sex club? No, Sherlock. I didn’t.” I could feel myself snapping. I had to get out of there. I turned and walked as quickly as I could, short of actually running. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock’s voice rang through the corridor as I got into my car and instructed the driver to take me home. 

*******

The taste of strawberry wine laced his lips as I kissed him. His rough hands gripped my biceps, rolling me to lie on my back. The heat of the nearby fire mixed with the warmth of my skin as he traced my body with his lips. His fingers returned to my tailbone, causing my head to drop onto the blanket as I gasped for air. Suddenly I felt the same fingers at the nape of my neck. “Breathe,” he whispered into my ear. His gruff voice sent a chill through my spine as I inhaled and felt the utterly confusing sensation of him entering my body. My long fingers dug into his shoulder blades as I yelled. I couldn’t tell if I was feeling pain or pleasure. I had spent the darker, private moments of my life imagining an experience like this one. The delectation became more undeniable with every thrust of his vigorous hips. I tried vainly to relax my muscles and maintain my composure. At forty-five years of age, I couldn’t bear to let him realise this was my first time.

“Mr. Holmes?”

My driver’s voice pulled me abruptly from my memories. 

We had arrived in my circular drive after our trip home from Lambeth, and I could see a lamp lit in the parlour window. Greg was already there. I had no idea what I could say to him. I’d spent the entire car ride fighting both the urge to punch the seats and the instinct to curl up in a ball and cry. 

I stepped out of the car, landing shakily on the brick path. My gate was unsteady, and I felt a cold weakness in my neck and head as I turned the brass doorknob. Setting my umbrella in its stand, I walked through the foyer toward the parlour. Staring into the fireplace at dry, cold, hickory logs, sat Greg. I watched from a distance as he raised a bottle of whiskey to his lips and chugged. I’d never seen him do that. Even with his limited refinement, he always used a glass.

“You think I don’t know you’re standing there?”

Without a word, I nervously walked in his direction, taking a seat in the chair opposite his. I remained silent, studying his body. I could read everything about him in his movements. I could see his soul in his face and hands. How could I have missed all this? 

“This doesn’t make any sense,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“That’s not you. That place. Those sort of people. That’s not you,” I insisted.

“You can believe it or not, Mycroft,” he began, still staring ahead, “but whatever you do, it’s still going to be true.” He placed the now empty liquor bottle on the floor between our chairs and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. 

“Why?” That one word was all I could manage. 

“Why was I part of that lifestyle?” he asked, bringing his lighter to his mouth. “I was young, Mycroft. I was young and scared.”

“What fear could possibly lead to that?” I continued to stare at him as he began removing his shirt, cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth.

“When did you realise you were attracted to men?” he asked.

Why would he ask that? “I don’t remember not knowing that about myself,” I replied.

“Well, I didn’t know until I’d been at that place,” he said, tossing his shirt on the back of his chair, then leaning against the wall in front of me. “And it terrified me,” he finished.

“Why were you there at all?”

“I had an adventurous girlfriend. She was bored with me but didn’t want to give up the security of having a steady boyfriend. She wanted to go, so I went along with the idea. It was a one-time thing.” He paused, looking out the window. “At least it was supposed to be.”

“Why wasn’t it?”

“Because I enjoyed it. I ended up with a man that first night, and I enjoyed it, Mycroft. I didn’t know what that meant, but I had to find out.” 

I looked up at his burly torso, lit by the moonlight that flowed through the window. It made my stomach churn to think about another man’s hands on him. 

His eyes finally met mine. “We can talk about this for hours. You’re never going to understand. So, how about you just tell me how you’re feeling?” 

The smoke of his menthol wafted into my face as I began to speak. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”

“You’re going to have to give me more than that, Myc.”

“Greg, I’m genuinely struggling to process it all. I don’t think I can give you more than that right now.” I looked into his eyes. They were cold, distant. The man I was staring at wasn’t the man I’d loved for so many years. 

“I’m going to bed, then.” He threw his cigarette into the fireplace and headed up the staircase.

Standing from my chair, I picked up his whiskey bottle from the floor and carried it to the bin in the kitchen. I leaned over the countertop, resting my head in my hands. “This isn’t happening,” I said to myself, feeling tears and nausea both rising to my face.

I swallowed forcefully and headed into the sitting room, glancing at the staircase on my way. I couldn’t bear to go to bed. I could hardly stomach looking at Greg after all this. How could I possibly lie next to him? I was disgusted - not because of things he’d done, but because of my internal reaction to it all. Whatever I was feeling was some rare combination of jealousy and insecurity. My, admittedly, deficient emotional intelligence wouldn’t allow me to delve any deeper. 

I reclined my body on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, and found myself longing for the memory I’d visited in the car earlier that evening. Closing my eyes, I hoped I could get back there.

It worked.

I could feel his warm breath on my shoulder, whispering, “I have to go.”

“Stay,” I pleaded. I could see the beginning sunrise through the parlour window from my spot on the sitting room floor.

“I have to be at the Yard in an hour.”

I rolled toward him, running my fingers across his chest. “Come to me again tonight.”

His beautiful eyes closed as he kissed my neck, then whispered in my ear. “I’ll be here.”

I watched as he stood, bending his nude and magnificent body to fetch his clothing from the floor. 

*******

“Mycroft?” I heard Greg’s voice speak my name quietly, as a hand rubbed my shoulder.

I opened my eyes to find him perched on the edge of the tea table, coffee in hand.

I sat up as he handed me the coffee cup. He’d filled it with cream and sugar. Greg drank his coffee black. “Thank you,” I said quietly, accepting the cup. 

He was freshly showered and shaved and smelled of his usual earthy cologne. His hair was damp, and he wore only denim trousers and a thin, tight white tee shirt. “You never came to bed,” he said as if I needed to be informed.

Before I could offer any explanation, he began again. “Mycroft, I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry.”

I couldn’t let him continue, knowing that it wasn’t going to do him any favors. “Greg. I don’t need any apologies.” I leaned over, resting the coffee cup on the tea table next to him. “I’ve been very happy with you. I love you, Greg.”

“I love you, too. You know that. You’re my world.”

“I can’t be your world anymore, Greg,” I explained, looking directly into his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t do this. I can’t get past this. You lied to me, Greg. Worse than that, though, I look at you now, and I don’t even feel that I know you. You’re a different person. You’re a stranger to me.”

“What do you mean you can’t do this? Mycroft, please don’t do anything you’ll regret. Let’s just talk.”

“I don’t want to talk. You said last night that regardless of how much we discuss this, I’ll never understand. You are entirely correct.”

He took my hand from my lap. “Myc, there’s a difference between understanding and acceptance.”

“Well, I certainly don’t accept it,” I snapped, pulling my hand away from him. “You can stay here as long as it takes you to find a flat. I will ask, though, that you move your things to one of the guest rooms. You may treat this as a hotel until you find other accommodations, but I can’t live with you as your partner any longer, Greg.” I paused, closing my eyes to manage, “I’m sorry.”

Greg dropped to his knees between my legs and the tea table. “Mycroft,” he began, gripping my thighs with his shaking hands. “Don’t. Don’t do this. You can’t do this. It’s in the past. Please just let it go.”

“I can’t let it go!” I caught myself raising my voice as I stood up to escape his grasp. 

“Why?” he yelled back.

“You’re mine, Greg!” The words sounded ridiculous as they flew out of my mouth.

“Of course I am,” his voice turned calm again.

“I can barely look at you without thinking about the things you did at that place. I can’t just let it go.”

“What if I told you everything I can remember? Every detail? Would that help?”

“It most certainly would not,” I bucked. I glanced at Greg. He hadn’t moved from his knees and was ghostly pale. “How many?” I asked suddenly.

“How many? How many people?” He hesitated. “I honestly don’t know, Mycroft. A lot.”

“Estimate, Greg,” I said curtly. “Twenty or two-hundred?”

He stood, walking in my direction as he cocked his head to show some sort of sympathy. “Probably around one hundred.”

My skin grew cold, and my heart rate climbed. I reached behind me for the chaise, as I felt myself losing my balance. 

Greg immediately lunged, hoping he could steady me. “Mycroft, I didn’t even know any of their names. It meant nothing.”

That wasn’t a comfort, but I hadn’t the breath to say so. I waved my wrist, signaling that he should stop talking. “Greg,” I managed. “You’re my only.” 

“I know that,” he confirmed, kneeling next to me again. 

“You’re my only, and I’m nothing. I’m one of more than one hundred notches in your bedpost. That’s all.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

“I can’t do this, Greg. Please leave me alone. They’ll have delivered the paper by now. You should go search for a flat.”

“Mycroft. Please.”

“Leave!” I’m not sure I’d ever screamed so loudly as I did at that moment. Greg’s face weakened with shock, and he walked out of the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Just as I settled into my chair with a cigarette, enjoying the grinding sound of my film projector as it warmed, there was a gentle knock on the door. Flipping the light switch and extinguishing my cigarette, I stood and walked to the front entrance. I opened the door to find an exquisite woman standing before me. She was average in height, but her giant blue irises appeared to be outlined in lavender, and her hair was long, visibly soft, and a very natural blonde. She was dressed modestly in a checked skirt and jumper but showed off her defined legs by standing delicately on her black pumps. Most notably, I’d never seen her before.

“Good evening. May I help you?” I greeted.

She extended her tiny hand to me. “I’m Diana Lestrade.” 

My breeding triggered me to immediately accept her hand, though my knees buckled as I did. She was Greg’s ex-wife. “Greg isn’t in,” I explained. He had gone out with Dr. Watson - maybe. The truth was that I hadn’t effectively listened when he told me. I had no reason to care anymore. 

“Good,” she said, smiling at me. “I’m here to see you, Mr. Holmes.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“I’m hoping we can have a chat.” She rubbed her own forearm, suggesting she was cold.

“My apologies,” I said instinctively. “Please do come in.” I stepped aside, opening the door fully as I gestured toward the parlour. “May I interest you in a bit of tea or a glass of sherry?” 

“Sherry would be lovely. Thank you,” she said as her eyes gazed at the gallery above. 

I poured two glasses of sherry from my bar cart and sat down in the parlour. “Please have a seat,” I offered, handing her the drink.

“You certainly do have an impressive house, Mr. Holmes.”

“Thank you.” I could have struck up a conversation about its history and architecture, but that would prolong the situation that was already causing me to perspire through my bottom layer of clothing. 

“Mr. Holmes, I’m sure you’re well aware that Greg is a very unique man.”

After the events of the week, I was in less of a mood to accommodate small talk than usual. 

“Ms. Les-,” attaching Greg’s last name to her didn’t sit well in my mouth. “Diana, I must admit to you that I’m not particularly accustomed to fireside chats. Is there a specific purpose for your visit?”

“Yes,” she said bluntly, sipping her sherry. “I’m here to convince you to take Greg back.”

I stared into her face as she looked at me. There was genuine concern in her eyes. 

“I understand that you’ve learned more than you’d like to know about our past together.”

“Together?” I said quietly. I hadn’t thought about it. It was a knee-jerk reaction. Was she the girlfriend Greg had accompanied to that club for the first time?

“He didn’t tell you,” she said, almost as if she was speaking to herself. She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “Mr. Holmes, Greg and I met at the club you were at a few nights ago.”

Just like that, I found myself lightheaded again. Greg had told me he didn’t know any of their names. Another lie to add to the quickly growing list.

“Mr. Holmes, Greg is a good man.”

“I’m beginning to wonder,” I said frankly.

“He is. I knew when we met that he wasn’t meant to be with me. Of course, I have functional vision, so he was difficult to resist. He’s a beautiful man.”

“That,” I said, “I can’t argue.”

Diana smiled at me, moving her neck around, trying to coax me into maintaining eye contact. “He belongs with a man. I’ve always known that. And, that man seems to be you.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but you are mistaken.”

“Mr. Holmes, let’s set congeniality aside, shall we? Greg went there with a girlfriend. He had an intriguing experience with a man and went back to explore that. From there, he got caught up in the lifestyle. He got mixed up with men and women. I was one of the women. When we were alone together in the playrooms, he’d talk to me about the men. I listened to him. That’s what drew him to me. He was confused, and I became a stabilising force.”

“A stabilising force that was unfaithful to him?” I heard the chide in my voice and squinted into her eyes. “You did suggest we set congeniality aside.”

She sighed and nodded in agreement. “Yes. I was unfaithful because I wasn’t satisfied. I loved him. I did - in my own way. But, Mr. Holmes, he’s not particularly skilled at pleasing a woman, if you understand my meaning.”

I was lost for words. Part of me wanted to hear her likely ludicrous argument in favor of me taking Greg back. The other half of me, though, just wanted her to stop talking and leave.

“It’s my understanding that he’s been quite good at pleasing you for at least six years or so now.”

I stood immediately from my chair. “Ms. Lestrade,” I said, still feeling a sour taste in my mouth at the words, “this conversation began on thin ice but has now reached a topic that is completely inappropriate. May I ask how you are even aware of Greg’s current situation?”

“He rang me two days ago asking about a storage building we used to own. He wondered if I still had access to it. When I asked why he needed the space, he said that you’d asked him to move out.” She stood and took three steps in my direction. “That’s really not what you want, though, is it?”

“What I do or do not want is none of your concern,” I insisted, looking down my nose at her.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said, “but you should know that all those years he was sneaking around with you - all those years that we were separated, but pretending we wanted to make things work - I always knew when he had been with you.”

Without breaking our eye contact, I swallowed forcefully, trying to push down the feeling of guilt I harboured for being a part of the breakdown of her marriage. 

“I always knew because he spoke differently, walked differently. He was like a giddy little boy on Christmas morning after he’d been with you. There was always a happiness in his eyes that I’ve never seen at any other time in the eighteen years I’ve known him.”

Trying to ignore her description, I argued back, “Well, he has made me anything but giddy with these secrets and lies that have arisen.” I walked toward the door, turning back toward the parlour once I reached the staircase. “Will there be anything else, Ms. Lestrade?” 

“I guess not, Mr. Holmes.” She walked across the room, stopping again to lock eyes with me. “Just remember that the heart-wrenching feeling you have when you think about his past,” she explained, “is the same heart-wrenching feeling he has worrying that he’s going to have to live without you.” 

Without a word, I opened the door, inviting her to leave.   
She stepped into the chilled evening, then turned to address me one last time. “It is my understanding that you’re a very powerful man. If that’s true, maybe you could at least make sure someone keeps an eye on him. I have little doubt that he’ll destroy himself if he really does lose you, Mr. Holmes.”

I refused to acknowledge her suggestion. “Good evening, Ms. Lestrade,” I said, closing the door quickly behind her.

*******

Several hours had passed, but I could still smell Diana Lestrade’s tawdry perfume. The odor made it nearly impossible to enjoy the film I’d already restarted twice. 

“Oh, forget it,” I grumbled to myself, walking across the room to flip the switch which would turn off my projector. As the room became still and quiet, I lit a table lamp and checked my pocket watch. It was nearly half-past one in the morning, and I was still alone in the house. 

Maybe Greg had found a flatshare and moved his things without telling me. He certainly had every right to do so. 

I felt my chest tighten, and my heart speed at the thought of him actually having moved everything. Before I realised what I was doing, I was upstairs opening the door to the guest room where I’d forced him to sleep. The odor of menthols washed over me, the air from the bedroom meeting the air of the corridor. As I entered, I could see a pile of clothes strewn carelessly atop the dressing table. His sidearm sat on the bedside table along with his badge. 

He hadn’t moved out, then. Where could he still be at such an hour? 

Perhaps he was back in Lambeth at that club. I closed my eyes at the thought. I could smell the dingy air of that horrible place. Opening my eyes, I sat on the edge of the unmade bed and picked up the tee-shirt that was lying atop the pillow. As my arms moved with the shirt in hand, Greg’s cologne tickled my nose. I felt a catch in my throat and bubbling of emotion in my chest. I refused to cry. I wasn’t going to sit there like a common fool and cry because I caught a whiff of some lying man’s preferred cologne. 

I suddenly remembered Diana’s suggestion that I was causing Greg as much pain as he was causing me. I can’t be sure if it was my reluctant acceptance of her statement’s accuracy or if it was sheer exhaustion, but I was suddenly unable to support myself. My arms went limp, and my back began to shake as I lowered myself onto the pillow. That smelled like him too. I covered myself with the blanket that was balled up to the right of my body, feeling one small tear escape. 

I closed my eyes and spoke aloud, “What did I do? Why am I not allowed to be happy?” By the time the last few words came out of my mouth, I was sobbing. I felt a steady stream of tears, unlike anything I’d produced since I was a child trying to sit still for Mummy to patch up an injury.

I gathered the excess fabric of the blanket near my chest along with the tee-shirt. Maybe if I closed my eyes and imagined hard enough, I could convince myself that none of this had happened. Perhaps I could make myself believe I was holding my handsome Inspector in my arms. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //TW - Physical force,  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> As the author wrote this chapter, they felt the need to issue a trigger warning. The author is a survivor of domestic abuse and found that this chapter came very close to triggering PTSD symptoms as one character physically restrains and dominates another for a few brief moments.  
> That incident ends without any trauma or injuries in this story.

**Chapter 4  
  
  
** I had just finished tidying the guest bed - rather, trying to make it look disheveled as it had been, but still somehow undisturbed. The sound of an engine in the front drive caught my attention. I glanced through the sheer curtain to see Greg stumbling out of a cab.

Slipping out of the guest room, I closed the door behind me and quietly stepped into my own bedroom as I heard Greg fumbling with his keys at the front door. He was always quite good at holding his liquor. He must’ve had an awful lot to drink for it to affect his balance and depth perception. 

The door slammed as it flew open against the foyer wall. “Damn!” I heard him grumble.

“I don’t even want to know,” I told myself as I changed into my pyjamas. Wherever Greg had been, whatever he had been doing, I knew I didn’t even want to imagine it. I slipped into bed, fetching my book from the nightstand, and found myself determined to ignore Greg’s commotion. 

_She repeated, “Love her, love her, love her! If she favours you, love her. If she wounds you, love her. If she tears  
your heart to pieces—and as it gets older and stronger, it will tear deeper—love her, love her, love her!” _

“Oh shit!” I heard. It was impossible to read in peace and ignore him. I heard the glass bottles on the sitting room bar rattling together as he repeated himself, “Oh shit!”

“Can’t even take his own advice,” I whispered to myself. This man who had spent so much time over the years trying to convince my little brother that another fix of cocaine wasn’t the solution to being high, was so drunk he couldn’t open the front door but was determined to pour himself another beer. 

It seemed he’d given up, though. His footsteps were heavy on the carpeted stairs.

“He can do what he wants,” I said aloud, turning my attention back to my book.

_Never had I seen such passionate eagerness as was joined to her utterance of these words.  
I could feel the muscles of the thin arm round my neck, swell with the vehemence that possessed her. _

“Hi, there.” Greg’s words were slurred as he swung my bedroom door open.

I looked up from my book to see him trying desperately to gain his balance by leaning against the door frame. 

“Is there something you need?” I asked flatly.

“Nope.” He staggered toward me, tripping a bit over the edge of the area rug. “Wanna know where I was?”

“I do not,” I said, examining him. He’d had beer, whiskey, and possibly absinthe - nothing to eat. He had been with Doctor Watson. They were at the club in Lambeth, but Greg hadn’t removed a bit of clothing all night. 

“Because you already know.”

“Did John enjoy himself?”

“See. You do already know. Fuck, Mycroft. If you’re so brilliant, why can’t you realise that I don’t care about anything but you?”

“If that’s true, you wouldn’t have gone there again,” I mumbled the comment almost under my breath, which only made him come closer. 

He fell onto the edge of the bed. “I didn’t do a damn thing tonight. You know I didn’t. John, though - I couldn’t get him to leave. That’s why I was gone so long - waiting at the bar for him all night.”

“Yes. Well, I was about ready to go to sleep.”

He ignored my cue for him to leave the room. “You know why I went there?”

Without turning my head from my book, I raised my eyes in his direction.

“To piss you off.” He spoke each word with slow, vindictive emphasis. 

“Yes, Greg. I do, of course, deserve punishment - all the wrong I’ve done to you,” I said sarcastically.

My chide aggravated him. Before I could take a breath to say anything else, he was lunging toward me and wrapping his strong fists around my wrists, forcing my hands to my sides. He hovered his face, inches away from mine. I had been correct - a great deal of absinthe. “It’s time for you to get off your high horse, Mr. Holmes,” he sneered in a tone even deeper than his usual voice. 

“It’s time for you to get out of my bedroom,” I replied, maintaining my composure and authority. I wouldn’t allow him to intimidate me simply because he was intoxicated and unpredictable. 

“Not until I tell you everything.” His grip on my arms grew tighter, and he pinned my legs between his. “I tried to remember everything while I was sitting at that damn bar.”

I had no desire to hear any details of his past. It wasn’t my concern any longer. Our romantic entanglement was over, as far as I was concerned, no matter how badly it hurt. 

“I went there for four years. There were more men than women - by a lot. There were chains and whips and clamps and a swi - “

“Greg!” I raised my voice, interrupting him mid-word. “Leave. Leave this room and leave me alone. I’m through with this. I don’t even care if you have a place to go anymore. I want you out of this house by dinner time tomorrow.”

His broad torso leaned into mine, forcing me deeper against the pillows as he moved his knees to surround my hips, making sure that I had no path to slip away from him. “And a swing,” he said, continuing his sentence as though I’d never spoken. “One night, I had three men at once. Two fucking me at the same time while I blew the other one off.”

My eyes closed as I turned my head away from him in disgust. “I’ll ask you calmly once more to please leave my room. If you’d rather not cooperate, I won’t hesitate to call - “

He interrupted me this time. “Call who? Who, Mycroft?” He left a pause in the air before continuing, “The police?” His arms jolted, pushing my wrists further into the mattress and reminding me that he had complete physical control. “You go ahead. First, figure out how to get to a phone. Then, go ahead and ring the police. See what the Sergeant on duty at Scotland Yard has to say.” 

He was right. I couldn’t ring his own people for assistance, and there really was no way I could conceive to get out of his grip. The British Secret Service always had my home under surveillance, but Greg was a known resident. They had no cause for alarm. The press of one button on my mobile would send a panic code to Anthea, but Greg had complete control of my range of motion. 

“All bark and no bite, aren’t you?” He released my wrists and straightened his back. “You think you’re so clever with your deductive skills. Do you honestly think that I can’t see it?”

“See what?” I asked as he shifted his weight and stood from the bed. 

“That you’ve been crying.”

I stared at him as he shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

***

I stepped out of the cold shower and reached for a towel. Shivering, I examined my face in the nearby mirror. I looked dreadful. I’d gotten no sleep after Greg had left me alone. I had hoped that an icy shower would wake me up a bit, but it hadn’t done anything at all.

The morning sun assaulted my senses as I walked into the bedroom to dress. As I donned my shirt and waistcoat, carefully placing my pocket watch, I could smell eggs cooking downstairs. 

“How can he possibly be functioning?” I asked myself, remembering how drunk Greg had been just hours prior. “He’s probably made a mess,” I grumbled, stepping into my trousers. 

I finished dressing as quickly as I could and headed downstairs. I could hear dishes rattling in the dining room as I reached the parlour. Leaning into the archway, I could see Greg setting the table. He was placing a pitcher of orange juice between two plates of sausage, toast, and soft boiled eggs. He looked utterly sober and not at all affected by his night out. His hair was combed back nicely, and I could smell his aftershave and cologne mingling with the aroma of breakfast. 

“What are you doing?” I asked in amazement, without realising I was talking aloud.

“What does it look like? Making breakfast. Coffee will be ready in a minute, but if you’d prefer tea, I’ll get the kettle on.”

“Greg.” I couldn’t think of anything to say. We’d spent days avoiding one another only to bicker whenever we did cross paths. 

“I’ve decided that I’m not going to accept your decision.”

“I’m sorry?” I said, crossing my arms atop my chest.

“You can pretend you don’t love me, but I know better. And I’m not going to even acknowledge this ridiculous attempt to end things. We belong together, and that’s that.”

I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. “I never said that I don’t love you,” I explained, walking across the room and sitting down in my usual chair at the head of the expansive table. “I just can’t get past all this.”

“If you love me, you’ll get past it.” He sat down beside me, biting into a piece of toast as if everything was normal. “You don’t want to. You have yourself convinced that you can’t because your ego doesn’t know how to come to terms with the fact that you’re not the only man I’ve ever shagged.” 

“That wasn’t news - and if you think that’s what’s bothering me, you’re sorely mistaken.”

He finished a sip of juice and slammed his glass onto the table. “What then?”

“I won’t discuss it. I’ve told you, I can’t continue on.”

“You’re going to throw all this away without even talking about it. Without even trying?” I watched him in silence as he fidgeted his fingers in frustration. “I wasn’t going to do this. I was going to let this go,” he said. 

I cocked my head, inviting him to continue.

“Maybe I have no right to ask, but who was here last night?”

I wondered what had tipped him off. “You’re correct. You have no right to ask whatsoever.”

“So, that’s it, then? I made idiotic choices twenty years ago, and you’re going to get back at me for it by sleeping with someone else?”

I pushed my chair back away from the table, crossing my arms again. With my head high and nose tilted upward, I scoffed at him. “Would I ever, in a million years, on any planet, do anything like that, Greg?”

His voice became quiet and soft. “You’re loyal to a fault.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then why were there two glasses of wine by the fireplace?” 

“I had an unexpected, uninvited visitor.”

“There isn’t anyone else?”

“Greg, there is not now, nor will there ever be anyone else. I’m finished. I’m finished with you, and I’m finished with the ridiculous notion of love.”

“No, you’re not,” he mumbled, taking another bite.

I stood abruptly from my chair, throwing my napkin onto the seat in my place. “I’m leaving.”

As I walked by him, Greg reached for my arm. “Mycroft.” His voice was soft. He stood, locking his eyes with mine as he spoke. “I’m very sorry for how I treated you last night.”

“You should be.” I pulled my arm from his grasp and walked away toward the foyer to fetch my case and umbrella. 

*******

I’d had an awful day dealing with MI6. An emerging headache lingered behind my right eye, and my back was causing more pain than it did on most days. I’d fantasised all afternoon about a warm bath and its jets massaging my lumbar.

I leaned down slightly to rest my umbrella in its stand as I entered the house. Sitting atop the table in the foyer was an envelope. Atop the envelope rested two keys. Lifting the envelope in one hand, I let the keys fall onto the table. It was incredibly thick and not properly sealed, merely folded over. I reached inside to find £3000 and a note.

_I’ve met your deadline. Out by dinner time. If you find anything I’ve left behind, I’d be grateful if you’ll contact my office. This should cover anything I’ve used over the past few days since you decided I was just a tenant. I won’t stop hoping that you change your mind. I’m not complete without you._

I picked up the keys in my free hand, then threw them onto the marble floor, marching away into the sitting room as their echo filled the space. Fighting back tears, I tore the note and tossed it into the cold fireplace. My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the floor, unable to fight the tears any longer once I realised I was sitting in exactly the spot where Greg and I had shared our first night together. 

I could feel his breath against my ear and hear his whisper all these years later. “You’re perfect.” 

I remembered arching my back and thrusting my pelvis against his pumps as he said those words. He’d made me feel special, wanted, important. I’d let myself trust him. I’d let go in his arms. 

Now, it didn’t matter. It had all been a lie - a farce to keep me on his hook, all the while never telling me the truth. 

I turned around and snatched a framed photograph off the tea table. Mummy had insisted on taking photos of everyone at last year’s Christmas dinner. Greg and I had printed and framed the snapshot she’d taken of us. I threw it into the fireplace on top of his note and watched as the delicate glass shattered and distributed itself amongst the logs. 


	5. Chapter 5

“Sir?” Anthea’s voice attempted to break my trance. Two days had passed since Greg left home, and I had yet to sleep at all. I’d spent most of the morning staring at my office wall. 

“Sir, did you want to dictate that report?”

I shook my head slightly so that my gaze could find Anthea, though I couldn’t focus my vision on her. “Perhaps we should save that for tomorrow,” I suggested.

Her stiletto heels clicked on the cold floor as I looked up to find her walking toward me. She slipped past a table and lamp to stand beside me. Leaning against my desk to face me, her right thigh, clad in black hose, resting against the arm of my chair, she said, “Do you know where he is, Mycroft?”

“I’ve made my deductions,” I replied, finally landing my gaze on her dark blue eyes. 

“But you refuse to see him?”

“What reason is there to see him? Nothing is going to change.”

She sighed. Folding her arms across her torso and shaking her head, she continued, “Do you happen to remember how you met me?”

“I do.” 

“You took a criminal under your wing. You gave me a job and a home,” she deliberately moved to bump her hip against my elbow as she finished, “and a friend.”

Leaning back in my chair, I cocked my head as I continued to stare at her. “What does that have to do with my current situation?” 

“You trust a reformed art thief with your secrets, your livelihood, and your life. Why is it so hard to trust a reformed sex addict with your heart?” 

We rarely allowed it to enter our conversations, but she was, in fact, a thief. She had been put in my custody nearly thirteen years prior, having completed a string of high profile rare art heists within multiple Embassies. She’d been abandoned by her family and did what she was able to survive. Once I realised that she was a gentle and kind woman, armed with brilliance just shy of rivaling my brother’s, I was sure to put her on a different path.

I reached up for her hand. “My dear, you have never once lied to me. That’s the difference.” Her strawberry-scented hand cream stole my breath as I kissed the back of her hand. 

She turned her hand over in mine, lacing our fingers together. “Yet  _ you’re _ sitting there trying to lie to  _ me _ .” Without releasing my hand, she moved to sit on my lap. “The lie and deceit isn’t the problem, Mycroft. You’re frightened.”

“Am I? I snapped, raising my chin with a slight hint of arrogance. “Of what, might I ask?”

“Comparison,” she said bluntly, straightening my tie tack. “You’ve spent your entire life skating by on your intellect and authority - areas in which there is no one to compare to you. But personal entanglements, sensuality, intimacy - those are your shortcomings. You can’t bear to think that he might hold you in his arms and compare you to someone else.”

She was the only person on earth who I’d allow to speak to me so directly. Had anyone else made such a suggestion, I would have ordered them gone from my presence. Anthea, however, had my respect. In some ways, I’d allowed her to fill the role in my life that probably should have belonged to Eurus. She was the baby sister I’d never really had. “And you think that’s ridiculous,” I assumed.

“Does he love you?”

“Of course he does.” I blurted the answer without even thinking. 

“Well, then you’re not such a genius if you let him go,” she said softly. “I’ve watched the way he looks at you, Mycroft. Trust me; he’s not comparing you to anyone.” Cupping her hand around the side of my neck, she kissed my forehead, then stood to walk around to the other side of the desk. “Of course, if you don’t want to be compared to the fantasy, you could just become the fantasy.”

“Meaning?”

“Meet him there - at that club. If you experience it, maybe you’ll feel differently about it.” 

A moment of silence passed between us as she straightened the files strewn around my desk. 

“With all due respect, though, you’ve been useless around here for a week. So, whatever you do, just do something. You know as well as I do that you don’t actually want to be rid of him. You’re going to have to swallow your pride and admit it eventually.” She winked at me before slipping out the side door toward her own desk. 

*******

Against my better judgment, I’d spoken to Dr. Watson and learned that he and Greg were already planning to be in Lambeth that evening. According to John, Greg hadn’t been completely sober for more than an hour since he’d left home. Perhaps his ex-wife had been correct. It sounded as though he was spending most of his time barricaded with gin in the basement flat at two-hundred twenty-one Baker Street. Diana said he would destroy himself. 

“How many waistcoats are you going to try?” Anthea sat in the corner of my dressing room, checking the time on her phone. 

“If I’m going to go through with this asinine plan, I need to look the part.”

She stood up, examining me from head to toe. “Then you should consider that you’re going to a sex club, not Buckingham Palace.” She smirked at me with amusement. “Allow me?”

I stretched my arms out to my sides, inviting her to add, remove, or adjust whatever she saw fit. Without hesitation, she unfastened my waistcoat, tossed it to the side, and began rolling up the sleeves of my linen oxford. She buttoned them at the elbow, then pulled off my tie before opening the two buttons nearest my neck. 

“Ring, please,” she said, opening her hand.

“Absolutely not,” I protested. 

“Some gay men wear commitment rings on the right hand, Mycroft. You can’t go there looking like you’re spoken for.”

“I’m not trying to entice anyone besides Greg. He knows I wear a ring.”

“Still, it tarnishes the illusion. You’re trying to be his fantasy, remember?”

“It doesn’t come off.”

“I’m going with you. It’s safe,” she insisted, wiggling her fingers with impatience. 

“What if something happens?” I begged.

Her eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “I’ll wear it around my neck. Then it’s still with you - or near you, at least.”

My hand shook a bit as I hesitantly slid the gold-colored band off my right ring finger. The ring never left me. On its underside was embedded a small tracking chip. If I was ever missing or under threat, MI5 could locate me. 

“Your umbrella stays with me too,” she said, stringing the ring onto her necklace. 

“This is ridiculous. Tell me again why I’m doing this.”

“Because seducing your handsome Inspector is apparently more appealing to you than apologising to him,” she teased. 

I tilted my head to give her a scolding glance and suddenly noticed the extremely minimal length of her skirt. “Why exactly do  _ you _ look the part? You’re not staying there, remember,” I ordered. “You’ll get me through the door, but as soon as I find Greg, you return to the car. Promise me.” I knew I wouldn’t muster the confidence to walk into that place independently, so I’d agreed for her to come along. However, I was far too protective of Anthea to leave her alone with those sorts of people. I often took advantage of her appearance, using her to distract or convince, but I would never dream of putting her into a situation where anyone might consider laying a hand on her. 

“Yes, sir.” She said with a smile, reaching out to unfasten one more button on my shirt. “Remember, if you do this, you have to be able to forgive him. Are you ready?”

“We’ll find out,” I said, extending my elbow to her, ready to escort her to the car.

*******

There I stood - at the door to a sordid sex club with a magnificently alluring woman on my arm. “To most men, this would be the perfect moment,” I said aloud. 

“Neither of us would be standing here if you were most men,” Anthea replied, tugging my arm and leading me closer to the door. As she reached for the handle, I pulled her back. “He’s in there, Mycroft. Do you want to let him go?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Then stick that arrogant nose of yours in the air and take me in there.”

I pulled the door open and guided her through by the small of her back. “This is the most humiliating thing I’ve ever done,” I mumbled, following Anthea through the door. 

As we entered, the same woman who had greeted Sherlock, Greg, and me several nights prior turned from a small podium near the door. “Well, well,” she sang, “It’s nice to see you back.” The woman walked toward us. “You do have good taste, don’t you?” I watched her eyes assess Anthea as intently as they had studied Greg. “Let me know if anyone gives you trouble getting into the high roller room,” she said, turning her attention back to the man she’d been speaking to as we entered.

Greg, of course, wouldn’t be in the high roller room. I searched the central space of the club but didn’t see Greg or Dr. Watson. “Let’s have a drink,” I said, leading Anthea through the crowd. Men and women alike ogled her as we walked. It took every bit of composure I could manage to resist the instinct to cover her with my coat and march her back to the car.

I felt her nails dig into my arm as she suddenly stopped walking. “There,” she said, nodding toward the corner of the bar area.

The breathtaking woman clenching my forearm barely caught my eye, but that man -. Greg was leaning over the bar top wearing a skin-tight long-sleeved henley. His silver hair was an absolute mess, which somehow made it even more touchable. Even from a distance, I could tell that he was already drunk. 

I gripped Anthea’s hand, took a deep breath, and started walking toward him. He didn’t notice us approaching. When I was finally close enough to touch him, I reached out my arm. It was unsteady, and my heart was racing. “Are you here with anyone?” I asked, tapping him on the shoulder. 

Slowly, with a shocked look of confusion in his eyes, he turned to look at me. His eyes darted from me, then to Anthea, and me again. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said in amazement. 

Anthea wiggled her hand from my grasp. “You know where to find me,” she said, turning and walking back toward the door. 

“Hi,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.


	6. Chapter 6

“You’ve completely lost your mind,” Greg said, looking me up and down, his eyes finally resting on my unbuttoned collar. “Why are you here, Mycroft?”

I cleared my throat nervously. Anthea had told me what to say. “I was hoping I could interest you in joining me in one of the playrooms.” I turned my head slightly to direct his attention to the row of doors that lined the side of the room. 

Greg reached out for the shot glass that sat in front of him on the bar, and he quickly swilled it down. The glass slammed back onto the bar top as he looked at me again, shaking his head. “You - and every other member of your family - should be studied,” he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the gallery of doors. 

He led me into one of the rooms and closed the door behind us. My eyes were drawn directly to the contraption hanging from the ceiling. It looked like a perch from a bird’s cage with chains and handcuffs hanging from it. One wall featured what looked like a built-in armoire. In the middle of the room was a large, circular - bed or cushion? It appeared to be made of some sort of plastic meant to imitate leather. 

I turned back toward the door to find Greg standing against it with his arms crossed. “Alright. Now explain yourself. Why are you here? What exactly do you want?”

I wondered if he could see my heart beating through my shirt. My chest felt like it was about to implode. I stepped toward him, resting both my thumbs in his belt loops. “I want whatever you want,” I said, leaning down toward his ear.

His rough hands joined together on my chest and pushed me backward with enough force that I stumbled and had to find my balance. “The last time I saw you, I was told you wanted nothing to do with me. Do you remember that, Mycroft?”

I tried again. This time, I stepped close enough to Greg to trap him in the corner of the room and reached my hands around his waist to rest on his backside. “You didn’t believe me. You said I still wanted you. Perhaps you were right,” I whispered with my lips nearly touching his. 

He used all of his body weight to force me away, ramming his pelvis against mine and knocking me onto the plastic cushion. Without a word, he sat next to me. “Mycroft, you’ve pushed me away, forced me out of our home. If you want me to be completely honest, this whole situation has completely broken my heart. I’ve been drinking - a lot. I’m not really in any condition to have a rational conversation, but if you want to talk, I’ll try.”

“I didn’t come here to talk,” I explained, unfastening the remaining buttons on my shirt and sliding it down my shoulders.

“What exactly do you think is gonna happen in here?”

I took a deep breath. I’d argued with Anthea, but she insisted there was one phrase that I absolutely must use. “Fuck me, Greg,” I said, leaning in to brush my lips on his neck. “Fuck me like you fucked them.”

He arched his neck and pulled back from me. “You don’t use that word.” He paused. “And you don’t dress like that. And where the hell is your ring?”

“You’re always telling me to loosen up. I was simply making an effort.” I leaned over him, guiding his back to meet the cushion. “Now, fuck me.”

“You think that’s what you want?” he whispered.

“It  _ is _ what I want.”

“Fine,” he said, grabbing my biceps and rolling me to the side. I looked up at him, straddling me. “Two rules. No kissing and no questions,” he instructed as he pulled my trousers off, letting them drop on the floor. He reached to open the armoire’s door and pulled a black satin strip of cloth from a drawer. He bit my collar bone as he tied the satin around my eyes. Then, I heard the rattling of metal before feeling the smoothness of leather wrap around both my ankles. My cock ached between my legs, but I didn’t get the impression he planned to touch it. Greg lifted my legs, and I suddenly found my ankles chained to my wrists with very little room to move. The chill of cold glass touched my hole, then quickly disappeared. 

All sound and all movement stopped.

“Greg?” I said, hoping not to be scolded for talking or asking questions.

“Damn it, Mycroft!” he moaned, ripping the blindfold from my face. “Go home!”

“I’m sorry?”

Releasing my wrists and ankles gently, he repeated, “Go home.” I watched him bend over to fetch my trousers from the floor before he threw them onto my lap. “Leave. Now.”

“So, what? Am I not good enough? Is that it?”

“Mycroft, please go.”

I stood, so angry I could have punched through to the next playroom with my fist. “Do you have any idea what it took for me to come here?” I asked, pulling on my trousers.

“I can imagine,” he said without looking at me.

“I’m not attractive enough for this? You can only screw around like this with men who look like - -  _ you _ ?” 

“You don’t belong here,” he said, finally looking in my direction, watching me button my shirt. 

“If you want my opinion, neither do you. This is it, Greg,” I continued. “If I say goodbye now, I mean it. I won’t take it back. I won’t try again.”

He said nothing. He simply stood, leaning against the armoire, staring at me.

“Goodbye, Greg,” I said, fighting back tears as I stormed out the door.

*******

As the car pulled away from the club, Anthea’s voice started gently, “What happened?”

I shook my head, signaling that I didn’t want to answer her. 

Her arm wrapped slowly around my shoulder, and without a word passed between us, I let my head and shoulder fall to the side, into her lap. Knowing she couldn’t see me, I let a few tears escape as she ran her fingertips through my thinning sideburns. 

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she mumbled to herself. 

I heard the tink of her gold necklace as she reached up, removing my ring from her neck. She slid the ring back onto my finger, then held onto my hand, squeezing it in an effort to comfort me. 

“No sense at all,” she repeated.

*******

I hadn’t eaten in two days but finally found the motivation to make a bit of tea. I stood in the corner of the dark kitchen, waiting for my Earl Gray to steep, and was interrupted by my mobile. I reached into my pocket as it vibrated, then read the text message.

_ Baker Street. It’s urgent. _

“Your definition of urgent changes with the wind,” I said aloud as though Sherlock were standing before me. With a glance toward my teacup, I sighed and left the room to fetch my umbrella.

*******

“What, may I ask, is so urgent this morning, brother dear?” My voice was riddled with annoyance as I entered the flat on Baker Street. 

Sherlock and John sat in their usual chairs. Without looking up at me, Sherlock replied, “How are your perfume identification skills these days, Mycroft?”

“That’s always been your area of expertise,” I answered.

I noticed Mrs. Hudson standing near the entry to the kitchen, glaring at me as though she might be capable of spitting venom far enough that it would reach me. The look on Dr. Watson’s face was comparable. 

“Well, I was hoping you might have some insight on this one.” Sherlock stood as he spoke, followed by John. They both walked toward me. “Your - - special someone - - has gone missing, it seems.”

“He’s not mine,” I corrected. “What do you mean he’s missing?”

Mrs. Hudson chimed in. “We haven’t seen him in two days.”

“Downstairs,” instructed Sherlock, leading the way out of his flat. 

The three of us walked in silence, leaving Mrs. Hudson behind. 

“He’s taken everything with him. The whole place is empty,” said Dr. Watson as we approached the door to the basement flat. 

“Except,” Sherlock began, opening the door, “that. That, brother mine, I believe, is a perfume called A Goodnight Kiss. I thought you might know it.”

I stepped slightly over the threshold as the scent washed over me. I looked back at Sherlock, whose eyes had changed to match Mrs. Hudson’s and Dr. Watson’s. 

“I know it,” I confirmed quietly.

“What’s going on, Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice was stern and accusatory.

“You think I have something to do with him disappearing?” I snapped in astonishment. “Are you mad?”

“Who wears it, Mycroft? A Goodnight Kiss?” Sherlock continued interrogating me while John stood silently at his side.

I glanced around the flat, searching desperately for something else from which I could glean information. There was nothing there. Only the smell of A Goodnight Kiss - a perfume that I ordered from a shopper at Selfridge’s once each year to be delivered to Anthea for her birthday. It had much too large a price tag to be worn by anyone Greg might have worked with or with whom he was likely to socialise. Aside from those essential points, I could also smell the faint strawberry of her hand cream. 

I felt my knees weaken as I grew lightheaded, a feeling to which I seemed to be growing accustomed. I trusted Anthea implicitly. She wouldn’t lie to me. Would she? My eyes clenched shut as I tried to process every thought, sans the emotion that was sneaking its way into my mind. I was utterly incapable of finding a reasonable explanation. 

I burst back through the door, never saying another word to Sherlock or Dr. Watson. I rushed to my car, instructing the driver to take me immediately to the Cabinet Office. As the ebony Jaguar began to move, I dialed Greg’s number on my mobile. There was no answer. 


	7. Chapter 7

I stormed through my office door, rage searing my veins as my racing heart pumped boiling blood through my body. The side door within my office was open. Without hesitation, I entered the corridor, which led to Anthea’s desk.  
“I didn’t expect to see you today,” she said, a tone of surprise floating over her usually calm, soothing voice.  
“Where is he?” I hadn’t intended to yell, but it was evidently the only way I could communicate at that point.  
Anthea suddenly jolted out of her chair and stood at attention. “Where is who, sir?”  
“Cut the act. Drop the ‘sir.’ Where is he?”  
Her head titled slightly as she examined my eyes, never saying a word.  
“Where is Greg?” I asked once more, now shouting with enough volume to disturb others in the building.  
“Mycroft, why would I know where he is?”  
“You were there. You were at Baker Street where he’s been staying.” I lowered my voice and stepped closer to her. “Why were you there?”  
Her raven hair fell in front of her right eye as she took a moment to scan every inch of my body. “You think we’re having an affair.” She spoke with a quiver of pain in her voice.  
“Don’t deduce me,” I snapped.  
“Well, I’m not wrong, am I? I learned from the best, after all.” She reached out to rest her hand on my shoulder. “You, however, are wrong this time. He’s not quite my type.”  
“What _is_ your type?” Despite her exceptional beauty, in all the years I’d known her, I’d never been aware of her involvement with a man.  
She lowered her arm and returned to sit in her chair. “Oh, you know - older, tall, well-dressed, Mensa-level genius, socially incapable,” she paused, apparently for effect, “incontrovertibly gay, and emotionally unavailable.” She looked down at her desk in an effort to hide the sideways grin that manipulated her lips.  
“This isn’t a joke, Anthea.”  
“Mycroft, I was there, but I don’t know exactly where he is now.”  
“Why were you there?”  
“Look at yourself,” she instructed, nodding toward the long pane of glass on the wall.  
I complied, turning to see my reflection.  
“You’re allowing pain and emotion to cloud your vision. Take a few breaths. Straighten your tie.” After a few taps of her pen against the mahogany desk, she continued, “Now, where does my loyalty lie?”  
“With me.”  
“As it always will,” she expounded. “When was I at Baker Street?”  
“You went there and waited for him after we left the club a few nights ago.”  
“And why was I there?”  
“You went there because you couldn’t make sense of why he rejected me,” I said, looking down, suddenly unable to look at my own face in the glass.  
“And finally,” she said with a sigh, “do I know where he is right now?”  
“No.” I turned around to lock my eyes with hers. “But you do know something,” I insisted.  
Anthea reclined slightly in her chair and crossed one leg over the other at the knee, exposing all but the top few inches of her delicate thighs. “I know that when I left him, he had a newfound determination to win you back, no matter the cost.”  
“What does that entail,” I wondered aloud.  
“I’ve no idea. I didn’t ask,” she replied, sitting back up in her chair and reaching for a file on her desk. “Maybe you should stay and get a bit of work done. It might keep your mind off things.”  
“No one has seen him since you left him,” I explained, my voice returning to its combination of panic and rage.  
“What do your instincts tell you?” She made a few notes on the file folder as though official work was vastly more interesting than anything I might have left to say.  
“That he’s perfectly fine.”  
“I’m sure you’ll see him soon.”  
As Anthea finished her sentence, I left her alone, walking to my own desk.

***

By the time I decided to end my workday, I was exhausted from the stress and confusion of the morning that still lingered in my mind. The weariness was such that I felt nothing beyond indifference as the car drew close enough to the house for me to see that the foyer lights were lit.  
With a sigh, I stepped out of the vehicle and sulked to the front door. I didn’t want to deal with whatever was awaiting me inside. I wanted to slip into my satin pyjamas, get lost in a book, and then fall asleep. I wasn’t in the mood to question Greg. I wasn’t in the mood to argue with Greg. I wasn’t in the mood for whatever Anthea had described as Greg’s “newfound determination.”  
The front door was, of course, unlocked. I entered, hanging my coat in the foyer and leaving my umbrella in its stand. I could smell crackling hickory and a well-done eggplant florentine. “Why is he doing this?” I asked myself aloud as I cautiously began to walk toward the sitting room.  
I tilted my head so that I could just barely see around the archway. Greg was nowhere to be seen, but he’d been hard at work. The tea table was moved slightly toward the sofa, creating a larger space between it and the fireplace. That space was covered with a king-sized blanket, topped by plates and goblets. It looked like an indoor picnic. As I took a few more steps, I saw an open bottle of strawberry wine sitting atop the bar cart. The room was sprinkled with candles. It was perfect. Not one thing was missing or out of place. The room looked exactly as it had when I sat waiting for Greg the first night he’d come to my house years ago. The mixture of anger, exhaustion, and confusion I’d been suffering suddenly gathered together as a lump in my throat.  
“Perfect timing!” Greg’s voice sounded breezy as he came into the room behind me carrying a serving tray. He lifted a bite-sized cut of bruschetta and brought it to my lips as he approached me. “Open up.”  
“Greg,” I said, shaking my head.  
“Open up, I said.”  
I rolled my eyes, cocked my head at him, and opened my mouth. The warm, salted tomatoes were a heavenly reprieve to the fast that I’d unintentionally kept throughout the stress of the past few days.  
“Good?” he asked, placing the tray on the tea table.  
“Very good,” I admitted, following him curiously with my eyes.  
Once his hands were free, they made their way to my neck to loosen my tie.  
“Greg, how did you get in here? You left your keys.”  
“You don’t think a Scotland Yard Detective Inspector knows how to pick a lock? Are you angry?” he asked, lowering my suit jacket from my shoulders.  
“I’m honestly not sure what I feel anymore.”  
“Are you willing to spend some time figuring that out?” he asked, taking my hand and tugging me toward the blanket.

***

We’d sat quietly, picking at the dinner. I was at a loss for words, and Greg studied my every movement. I couldn’t help but remember our first night together. I remembered that indescribable feeling that overwhelmed me the first time he took me in his arms.  
“Greg.” I finally broke the silence. “When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?”  
“Believe it or not,” he started, taking a sip of wine, “I wanted to be a Cop.”  
I smiled at him for the first time in at least two weeks.  
“What did you want to be?” Greg asked me.  
I moved our plates and flatware to the tea table and rested my wine glass on the tile in front of the hearth. “I didn’t,” I said, lying down on my right shoulder, facing Greg. “I didn’t want to be anything. But I knew what I wanted to have.”  
Greg mirrored my movements and rested just inches away from me on his left shoulder. “What do you mean?”  
“I remember Mummy asking me that question. I told her that I didn’t know but that I wanted to have someone to come home to and talk to by the fire like she and my father did. I didn’t care how I made a living. I think I knew I wanted love but didn’t understand how to explain it.”  
Greg’s forehead wrinkled as he looked into my eyes. He knew that emotionally consequential conversations were difficult for me. “Have you ever felt like you found it?”  
“Of course, I have,” I said, reaching out for his hand. “Why didn’t you want me the other day?” I intertwined my fingers with his as I asked.  
“I always want you,” he replied, squeezing my hand. “I know this might not make sense to you, but I pushed you away that night because I love you so much.”  
Without a word, I examined his chocolatey eyes.  
“Mycroft, I could never disrespect you or demean you like that. I never want that to be a part of what we are together. I refuse to just mindlessly fuck you.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I know you’re disgusted by the things I’ve experienced with other people. But, you have to understand, Myc, there’s something you have that no one else does.”  
“What’s that?”  
“You’re the only person I’ve ever actually made love to.” He moved closer and pushed my shoulder gently, rolling me onto my back, as he buried his face in the crook of my neck. Before I could express my confusion, he continued. “Of course, you’ll say it’s just semantics.”  
“It is, Greg. It’s two different colloquialisms for the same action.”  
“Not to me. Fucking and making love are totally different things to me.” He kissed my earlobe and hummed with pleasure. “I’m sorry if I hurt you the other night. I’m sorry about all of this. I should never have hidden my past from you.”  
A moment of silence passed between us. I focused on the sound of the fire as he nuzzled into my collarbone.  
“Do we have a chance, Mycroft? Honestly? I know you said you’d never get past this, but -”  
I interrupted him. “Forget what I said.” I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “It seems I’ve learned something vital as a result of this situation.”  
“You learned something?”  
“Love is unconditional,” I said matter of factly.  
“Is it always?”  
“Always,” I confirmed as I leaned in to kiss him. “To be honest, I’ve missed you far more than I’ve been angry with you.”  
“In that case, Mr. Holmes,” he began, “could I ask you a question?” He pushed himself up so that he was looking directly into my eyes.  
“Anything, of course, Inspector.”


End file.
